


The Fixer

by RonD



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crossover, John Watson Whump, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-02-24 14:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13216146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonD/pseuds/RonD
Summary: Mycroft sends Sherlock and John on a case. When things go wrong, the Doctor becomes aware that someone is in danger of altering a fixed point.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fan fiction in some years, and my first Sherlock fiction ever. Hope you enjoy.

John looked around as he followed Sherlock down a dank alley. He took a deep breath. “Mm, eau de cat piss. I don’t know, Sherlock, you take me to the nicest places."

Sherlock smirked. “Well you can blame Mycroft for this one.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “He’s taking revenge on us for Sheffield.”

John chuckled. “Us? It wasn’t me who was arrested for breaking into the chief constable’s house.”

“I solved the case, didn’t I?” remarked Sherlock loftily.

“So is he so mad that he’s sending us after terrorists with no back up?” John asked idly. 

Sherlock snorted derisively. “Terrorists! They’re a group of amateurs who dream and talk a lot and do nothing. They only turned up on Mycroft’s radar when a known agitator took over the group. HE just wants to know what this Andrew Martin is intending. Dull!”

John nodded, having had a quick look at the information Mycroft sent them. “Martin doesn’t have form for much in the way of violence either. Bit of computer hacking, wasn’t it?”

“I may die of boredom before this night is over,” Sherlock grumbled, and muttered something about fat gits thinking they’re funny. John was silent, letting him fume. 

After walking through a few alleyways, they stopped at what was obviously a back door to a shop of some sort. Sherlock took out his lock picks, and John kept an eye out. Within half a minute they were inside, and standing in a small store room. The shop, a grocers, was owned by one of the members and the group were known to meet there. Sherlock believed they would find information on the office computer that would give them some idea of group funding and activity. So that was where he headed. John was in the process of following him when he noticed one of the crates piled up in the storage room that seemed an odd shape. He looked around. He could not see a single cardboard box, as would be expected, just crates. John had an uneasy feeling, and looked about for some way to open the crate. 

Sherlock easily hacked the computer password, and was scrolling through the information. The usual radical rhetoric, he thought in disgust. No Islam influence but Mycroft already knew that. Just home-grown radicals wanting a world free of capitalism, with the obligatory Marxist rhetoric. Very dull. He looked up when John came into the room in a hurry. Sherlock had been unaware until that moment that John had not followed him, but said “just as tedious as I predicted.”

“Never mind that,” said John. “Come and see this.” He went back towards the store room before Sherlock could even open his mouth, so he got up with a sigh and followed. Anything would have to be better than the drivel he’d just been reading. He entered the store room and stopped. The crate John had first spotted was now open, and displayed a row of shiny guns. Another crate had the same, and a third looked like it was packed with semtex. John was in the process of levering the top off a fourth crate. “Detonators,” he announced. He turned around. “Amateurs?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Amateurs with connections, apparently. And money.” And where is the money coming from? Does Andrew Martin have a backer? Who? “There might be some interest in this case after all,” he announced. 

“Why aren’t they keeping an eye on this lot?” asked John testily. “Why are there no guards?” He started heading for the door. “We need to leave, and we need to report this to Mycroft.” 

“You’re overreacting,” Sherlock scoffed. 

John whirled around to retort, then suddenly collapsed. Sherlock barely had time to react before he followed suit.

Sherlock woke slowly. For a moment he wondered why he was lying on the ground, and then he remembered. It took him another moment to realise his wrists and ankles were tied. Drugged, he thought. Most likely method of delivery was odourless gas, though he wondered what kind of drug acted so quickly and without warning. John. Where is John?

“Get him up,” said a voice. Odd kind of voice. Androgynous. He opened his eyes to see two men pulling him into an upright position. He felt light-headed, but looked around. They were no longer in the shop, but in a private house, though it seemed to be unused from the lack of furniture. He couldn’t see John.   
“Where …” He broke off as something came into view in front of him. Bipedal, puce coloured skin, not any kind of human being. Sherlock blinked in surprise. “What are you?” he asked. 

One of the men punched him in the stomach. “Mind your manners!” snarled the thug. 

Sherlock was still gasping when he heard the creature saying, “Now, Thomas, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.” Sherlock looked up, to see the creature examining him with its head tilted to one side, as if mildly puzzled. “I am Andrew Martin,” it said. 

“No you’re not,” said Sherlock. “Where is John?”

“Who?” said the creature, and the thugs sniggered. 

“John! Where is he?”

“If you are referring to the man who was with you, he was not needed, so I killed him,” said the creature casually. “Shot him in the head, to be exact.”

Sherlock had always been rather irritated by the films he watched with John, where someone would be given bad news and there would be dramatic music and the camera would suddenly zoom in on the person’s face so they can look shocked and horrified up close. In some movies the cameras would tilt or do something weird. It was so histrionic, he used to complain. Now he understood, because his world had just ended. He was vaguely aware that he was screaming abuse and threats. He knew he was being punched and kicked by the two men but he scarcely felt it. 

… And he was in a cellar, though whether it was in the same house or elsewhere he wasn’t sure. He was still bound hand and foot, and could barely move. His mind was screaming John John John … He knew he was sobbing incoherently but he could not stop, could not even think. He must have passed out again at some point, and when he awoke there was a glimmer of light through a tiny window. This time he was calm, numb. He needed to escape, and then he needed to kill the monster calling itself Andrew Martin. Afterwards … well, there was no afterwards. He would follow John.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft sat at his desk, pretending to work and that he was not waiting for the phone to ring. When it finally rang he answered it quickly and listened. “The entire store is empty, sir,” said a voice at the other end. “Our forensics people are processing.” 

“Let me know what you find immediately,” Mycroft ordered, and hung up. 

Anthea entered the room. “The van has been found abandoned on Hampstead Heath. Camera from nearby streets have identified a potential nine vehicles that they might have used. We are tracing all of them.” 

Mycroft nodded. She turned to go, and he said, “Please have the original intelligence re-checked.”

Anthea nodded, and left the room without further discussion. He indulged in a moment of self-recrimination for grossly underestimating the situation. The problem was that he could see no flaw in his information. Had Sherlock been too cocky, too careless? Or had he missed something? Well, the re-check should uncover any issues. 

His brother and his partner were missing, and he had not known until Mrs Hudson called Inspector Lestrade that morning saying that they had not come home, and Lestrade had called him. He knew Sherlock had been planning to investigate the store the previous evening, and CCTV footage found them entering the alley to the back entrance, and a van pulling out less than thirty minutes later. Both Sherlock and John’s phones were showing no signal. 

He was about to try and go back to work when his phone signalled an incoming text, which seemed to be from Sherlock’s mobile. Mycroft immediately ran another trace on Sherlock’s phone, but could still find no signal. Odd. Nobody in that group, including Andrew Martin, was that technologically adept. Did they hire someone? That could be traceable. He scanned the file for malware, and then opened it, to find a video file measuring 3 minutes. Bracing himself, he started the file. 

The first thing he saw was Sherlock, stripped to his underwear and tied to a chair. Bruises covered his face and torso. Two men were flanking him, who Mycroft registered as being members of the group Sherlock was investigating. There was no sign of John. A voice came from off the screen. “This is Andrew Martin.”   
“Rubbish,” muttered Sherlock, and was punched by one of the men. 

“This is a message for Mycroft Holmes. We have a number of requests, which you will find at the end of this video. If you do not comply within six hours, your brother will suffer for it. As an indication that we mean business, please observe.” One of the two men put on knuckle dusters, the other picked up a belt, and they got to work. 

Amid his brother’s suppressed gasps and cries of pain, Mycroft heard him say, “puce,” on two separate occasions, and “fake,” once. After the screen finally went blank, a list appeared, of classified information the group were demanding. Mycroft, compartmentalizing his emotions for later, considered the list. Groups of this nature do not usually ask for this kind of thing. The whole thing was odd. And John’s absence … the most obvious answer was that he was not seen as necessary. Mycroft knew what John’s loss would do to Sherlock. 

His phone rang, and he picked it up, seeing it was from the head agent at the store. “Sir, we have a code nine,” said the man. 

Now? thought Mycroft, aghast. His voice was entirely calm, however, when he said, “Where?”

“Right in front of me, sir,” replied the agent. 

An annoyingly familiar voice floated over the phone. “Mycroft, we need to talk!” 

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Please inform the Doctor that I am in my office and would be delighted to see him. He knows the way.” He hung up. I do not have time for this, he thought, even as a groaning, grinding sound filled the air. 

The door of the materialised police box flew open and a young man in an old-fashioned jacket wearing a bow-tie bounced out. “Mycroft! Long time no see!”

Anthea poked her head in the door. “Tea, please,” said Mycroft. 

She disappeared, as the Doctor threw himself into a chair, and put his feet up on the desk. Mycroft by a massive effort did not wince, and decided to get straight to the point, as he was facing an expert in evasion who would happily verbally fence with him for hours if given half the opportunity. “Alien invasion immanent?” he asked. 

“Oh, no!” exclaimed the Doctor. “Nothing like that! At least, I don’t think so,” he amended thoughtfully. 

“Then do what do I owe the pleasure?” enquired Mycroft. 

“What happened in that shop?” asked the Doctor. 

Mycroft paused, very surprised. “Why?” he asked. 

“Something did,” said the Doctor, a slight smile on his face as he studied Mycroft. “Something happened there that wasn’t supposed to happen. So I went there to find out, only to find your people crawling all over it. So what are you looking for?”

“What do you mean by ‘not supposed to happen’?” asked Mycroft. 

The Doctor was not to be distracted. “What happened in the shop, Mycroft?”

“My brother and his partner went there to investigate a small matter for me,” Mycroft said. “They have disappeared. A small group of so-called activists are respnsible, who apparently want to be taken seriously. Nothing that would interest you.” 

“Sherlock,” said the Doctor. “And … John Watson?”

Mycroft was a little surprised that the Doctor would know anything about John. He nodded. 

Anthea reappeared with a tea tray, and Mycroft was silent while she served. The Doctor however, chatted away. “Ooh lovely, and biscuits, wonderful! I can see why Mycroft likes you so much!” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Anthea, looking surprisingly flustered, left without a word.

“What date is it?” asked the Doctor. Mycroft, used to this kind of question, told him. 

“Oh that’s not right,” murmured the Doctor. “That’s not supposed to happen at all. And if it’s not fixed … Have they contacted you?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “They want classified information.” Suddenly he decided to show the Doctor the video. He hadn't had a chance to consider, but there was something very odd about it. 

So he brought up the video on his computer so they could both watch it. He did not really wish to see it again, but he knew he needed to. The Doctor watched in silence. “Who’s Andrew Martin?” he said. 

“A cyber-terrorist,” said Mycroft. “Essentially an anarchist, against government in general. His file lists him as being involved in computer hacking, mainly to crash systems and block services by denial-of-service attacks. He has ties to various activist groups who advocate a more hands-on approach than merely protesting.”

“Has he ever been into kidnapping?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “This is an escalation for him, and a massive escalation for the others in the group he took over.”

“Hm,” said the Doctor. “He must know there is information on him, but he doesn’t show his face. He identifies himself, and Sherlock immediately disagrees. During the … torture, Sherlock says only two words, ‘puce’ and ‘fake.’ Did you note this person’s voice?”

“I did,” said Mycroft. “And it does not match what we know of Andrew Martin. I was going to have it analysed to see if it had been synthesized to hide it, but what is the point of going to all of that trouble and then giving your name?”

“Well, Sherlock’s quite right,” said the Doctor. “That’s not your Andrew Martin. That’s not even a human being.” He looked a bit puzzled. “That voice is not synthesized, and it definitely did not come from a human throat. And puce? Well, I know of only one race whose skin could be described like that. How would he get here, I wonder?”

“The same way every other alien does, I would imagine,” said Mycroft drily. 

“Not this one,” said the Doctor. “This race is currently in their stone age. No, you’ve got a time traveller here, which explains a lot.”

Mycroft didn’t think this explained anything at all. “This alien has a time machine?”

“No!” scoffed the Doctor, and grinned cheerfully. “He came through the Cardiff rift. Well, I say he, but it would be a better description, biologically speaking.”   
He bounced to his feet. “Well I must be off. I’ll be in touch.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to object, but the Doctor forestalled him. “Andrew Martin, the real Andrew Martin, is probably dead, I’m afraid. But Mycroft? John Watson is not dead, not yet, anyway.” He disappeared into the TARDIS, which soon dematerialised. 

Mycroft let out a breath. He makes me feel like a goldfish, he thought suddenly. It was not a feeling he relished.


	3. Chapter 3

The Yrani currently known as Andrew Martin sat at his computer with his bank details open on the screen. The group he’d delivered the short human to had arranged payment promptly, and he was enjoying the increase in his bank balance. He was also contemplating the potential future earnings wrapped up in the tall human. The information he himself could provide plus the information his brother could be coerced into providing was immensely valuable. Once this had been exhausted, the human himself could be sold to one of his many enemies, providing yet another source of income. All in all, the taking of the two humans had been something of a windfall, and Martin was feeling very pleased with himself. Of course, the interrogation and extraction of the information would take a while, and he could see the human was going to be very stubborn, but he was very experienced in this sort of thing and was quite confident of eventual success. The only thing that had confused him was that the tall human seemed to see him as he really was instead of as Andrew Martin. He didn’t think the primitive humans were capable of seeing through the field he was generating. Oh well, it was irrelevant. The stupid humans who followed Andrew Martin were completely convinced of his identity, and blissfully unaware that their fearless leader was dead and buried where he would not be found in a hurry. ****The alien had been living on Earth for a little over three years, since he had inexplicably found himself there for no reason he could ascertain. At the time of his unexpected departure from his planet he had been carrying a bag containing the various tools of his trade, and luckily he still had this. Otherwise he was not sure he would have survived, and not been killed by the fearful natives. As it was he was able to quickly blend in, and eventually, after some time getting used to the place and the various languages, he began to work again at what he did best. He soon established himself with a solid reputation for resolving problems and supplying goods to those who could pay, both locally and off-planet. He lived very well on the proceeds, but it was only fair, he thought. If he had to be stuck on this backward planet why shouldn’t he live large?  
He returned to the cellar where the human prisoner had been placed, to find one of his followers outside the door with a mug of coffee. Martin wrinkled his nose. “Must you drink that disgusting stuff?” he demanded.  
“Sorry, boss,” the man answered, putting the mug aside. “He’s been pretty quiet after the kicking we gave ‘im.” He grinned.  
Martin had become an expert at picking the humans who loved feeling powerful and enjoyed hurting their fellows, and had quickly singled out the ones in this group that would follow his instructions in this area, making them his inner circle. Obnoxious creatures, but they did the job. “Good.” He grinned back dutifully. “Let’s see how he is.”  
The man opened the door, and Martin entered, observing his prisoner who was lying on the floor, still tied, and apparently unconscious. “Hmm,” said Martin, prodding him with his foot. He waved his hand at the guard, who withdrew. “Holmes?” called Martin. “Can you hear me?” Sherlock gave a soft moan. Martin leaned closer. “Holmes?”  
Then he gasped, jerking back. A long shard of glass was sticking out from his chest, and Sherlock, unaccountably no longer bound, was sitting up, one hand wrapped around his own ribcage, the other oozing blood from the glass. “Got you!” he hissed.  
“Ow,” said Martin. Sherlock stared in horror, as the alien calmly pulled out the glass shard. He rubbed his chest. “Stings.” He backhanded Sherlock, knocking the man to the ground again. He quickly ran the glass across one arm, as the other man came running in. “He cut me!” complained Martin, making a show of holding his arm. “What were you doing? Were you asleep?”  
“I…I…” said the man in shock.  
“Secure him properly!” Martin shouted, heading for the door. “I’m going to put a bandage on this.”  
Clever bastard, he thought, as he headed upstairs. It would have been a killing blow on a human, so it was a good attempt. He rubbed his chest again. That’s going to throb for a few days, he thought. How did he get the glass out of the cellar window without that fool hearing him? Maybe a bit of a deterrent against escape attempts is in order, and send the brother the evidence too, just to hurry him along?  
An hour later, Mycroft’s phone pinged with an incoming message from Sherlock’s phone. It contained the words “Little brother tried to run. He won’t be doing that again in a hurry.” There was a photo, of the soles of Sherlock’s feet, covered in cuts. Mycroft closed the photo, and then made a call. “Anthea, I am sending to you another communication from Sherlock’s phone. Please have it analysed.” He forwarded the message, and then sighed. Please hold on, Sherlock, he thought. I’ll find you.  
In a cellar somewhere in London, Sherlock was handcuffed to an old pipe sticking out of the cellar wall. Should have gone for the throat, he thought, and shifted his feet slightly, doing his best to ignore the way they throbbed. Transport, he reminded himself. Only transport. He examined the handcuffs. They would have done better sticking to ropes, he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft could hear Lestrade’s voice from the corridor before he even entered the room. “Yeah, well maybe MISTER Holmes could try phoning people instead of kidnapping them off the street!”

Mycroft smiled slightly, even as he continued to talk to one of his staff. “What surveillance do you have in place?”

The man nodded. “We are tapping his phones and computer. We are pulling previous phone and email records. He is being watched and followed. Three tails, sir, and they have the dossier of all Martin’s known contacts. They have been instructed to follow up on anyone the suspect meets, and to notify us immediately if Martin or any of his group are sighted.”

“Good, carry on.” Mycroft turned to Lestrade. “Good afternoon, Gregory.”

Lestrade glared. “They’re called phones, Mycroft! They’re used for communication!”

“Come into my office,” said Mycroft pleasantly. 

Lestrade took a deep breath and followed him. He sat down heavily in the chair Mycroft indicated. “You got any news? Because I’ve got nothing.”

Mycroft pursed his lips for a moment. “Gregory, you can’t go home.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“About an hour ago, we received word that a CCTV hack had been discoverd. This of course does happen occasionally, but this particular breach was narrowed down to specific locations. Baker Street, St Bartholomew’s Hospital, New Scotland Yard, your street, Dr Hooper’s street.” 

Lestrade looked dumbfounded. “You think this has something to do with John and Sherlock’s disappearance.”

Mycroft nodded. “Mrs Hudson and Dr Hooper have been taken to a safe house, and are well protected. However I believe you can be of assistance to me, and I assumed you would prefer to be involved." He turned to his computer. “I have been contacted.” 

He brought up the file, and turned it to Greg, who watched it, swearing several times. When it finished he sat in stunned silence. “Jesus!” he muttered finally. 

“Quite.” Mycroft rose and went to his drinks cabinet, returning with two glasses of whiskey, one of which he handed to Greg. “This man Martin has given us an inadvertent clue. The specific information he has demanded in return for Sherlock would only be of interest to certain people. They are being investigated, to see if they can lead us back to Martin.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Greg, and sipped his whiskey. He chewed on his lip, and hesitated a moment before asking, “Is John … dead, do you think?”

Mycroft regarded him. “That was my initial conclusion. However, there is a … consultant assisting me in this, who believes John is still alive. He is very reliable. At this point I would have to say there is insufficient information.”

Greg gave a quick nod. He wanted to ask Mycroft how he was holding up after seeing his brother tortured, but knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer. “Right. What can I do?”

A short while later, Mycroft was in his office alone. The time limit Martin had mentioned was about to expire, and he was expecting another message. Precisely on the dot, his phone rang. He opened the message and started the attached video. Sherlock was tied face down across a table, and one of his captors (Thomas Bradley, Mycroft’s brain supplied, skinhead, multiple arrests for assault, robbery with violence) stood over him with a whip. He grinned at the camera, and then brought the whip down across Sherlock’s back. Sherlock choked off a cry. 

After ten minutes later, the camera froze on the scene, and Martin’s voice was heard. “Don’t you care about your brother’s life, Mr Holmes? I hope you reconsider soon. I’m not sure how much longer he can last.” 

Gregory doesn’t need to see this, Mycroft thought, as he sent the file for analysis. He poured another whiskey, and tossed it back. He then went into the small washroom attached to his office, splashed some water on his face, and examined his expression in the mirror. When he was satisfied with his appearance, the Iceman left his office.


	5. Chapter 5

“Doctor!” complained Kate Lethbridge-Stewart. “I gave you access to UNIT, do you really need to set off every alarm in the place every time you visit?”

The Doctor looked around sheepishly. “Oops?” he offered, and waved at the soldiers who were running up in response to the alarms. 

Kate rolled her eyes and led the way into her office. She settled behind her desk. “So, alien invasion immanent?”

“You know, that’s exactly what Mycroft said to me.”

Kate wrinkled her nose. “Please don’t compare me with Mycroft Holmes, the man’s a spider.” She leaned back in her chair. “So, no alien invasion then. What brings you here? I take it it’s not a social call.”

“In 2008, Dr John Hamish Watson, RAMC, was seconded to UNIT for a period of three months while in Afghanistan. What for?”

Kate blinked at him. “Is that the Doctor Watson who’s missing? It’s been in the news.”

The Doctor nodded. “It could be important, Kate. What was that mission about?”

Kate turned to her computer. “I’ll look.” She tapped away at her computer. “Okay, there he is, now what … oh yes, that. I can’t see that it could have any bearing.”

“Kate!!” exclaimed the Doctor in frustration. 

She looked up. “Sorry. Right, I instigated a policy some years back that teams in the field should always have a full doctor with them. A team was mobilized from Islamabad in response to a theft of alien technology from a storage facility in Lahore. Their doctor was out with the flu, so we requested a stand-in from the Army, preferably someone who could also handle weapons if required. We got John Watson. The thieves were heading for the Afghan border, apparently intending to sell what they had to the Taliban. Our team pursued them across the border, and caught up to them after a long chase on foot through the hills. They had passed on some of the weapons, so there was a further hunt for the insurgents they dealt with. During that period the only other occurrence was a rather unexpected one. A small craft crashed about a day’s journey south of them just after they crossed the border. Four of the team including Doctor Watson diverted to the crash site. There were a crew of six aliens of a race unknown to us. Five were dead on impact, and the sixth died a short while after the team arrived, in spite of Doctor Watson’s best efforts. Standard procedure involves cremating the remains and destroying the ship if it cannot be recovered. The team removed some portable items from the ship for study, set explosives to destroy the ship, and then caught up with the others. That’s all.”

“Photos of the aliens?” asked the Doctor. She turned the screen towards him. “Ah,” said the Doctor. He sighed. “What did they remove from the ship?”

Kate examined the record. “Here, we have some photographs of the artifacts.”

The Doctor stared at the screen, and sighed again. “Where is that now?” He pointed at one of the items, a stone sphere. 

“In the archives.” 

The Doctor nodded. “I need it. Secondly, do you have a file on the Yrani?”

Kate checked her computer again. “An old Torchwood one, certainly. Apparently artifacts from that planet would wash up through the rift regularly.”

“I need that to,” he said, Jumping up.

“Why?”

He hurried her out of her office. “I’ll explain on the way to the archives.”

The Doctor raced into Mycroft’s office a short while later. “You could knock,” said Mycroft.

“Never mind that,” said the Doctor. “I have a story for you.” He parked himself in the chair. Mycroft was faintly relieved that this time he didn’t put his feet on the desk. “Once upon a time,” the Doctor began, “there was an army doctor in Afghanistan, who was seconded to UNIT. During the three months he was with them, they attended a wrecked spacecraft. Doctor Watson attempted to treat a dying alien, the only survivor, but the being, the pilot of the craft, didn’t make it. The UNIT group removed some portable items from the craft before destroying it. However, they didn’t know two things – that the Moldovan race equipped the pilot unit of their ships with a continuously transmitting feed, including visual, that would only stop when the pilot died, and that when they removed this,” he took the stone sphere from a pocket and placed it on the desk,” from the ship, they were removing a Moldovan heartstone, an artifact that this race has been known to die for, and more importantly in this case, to kill for.” He paused, as if waiting for a response, but Mycroft just stared at him, so he gave a little shrug and continued. “The Moldavans live a long way away, so it took a few years for them to get here. You won’t find their ship in orbit as they have very good cloaking technology. As they approached, they were contacted by a helpful resident, who had been living here for a while, who told them he could get anything they needed. They gave him a photo, and a date. Maybe he had to ask for the coordinates. The photo would give him rank and division, the coordinates would narrow down the possible suspects, and a search of records identifies the man. And John Watson is not hard to find due to his blog. “

“How much of this is speculation?” asked Mycroft. 

“Very little,” said the Doctor. “There was a transporter trace near the shop where they were taken. I knew he’d been taken aboard a ship.”

“Then why take Sherlock at a.. “ Mycroft broke off. “Oh, Martin is some kind of broker.”

The Doctor nodded. “A fixer, I think you would call it. It must have delighted him to see who Doctor Watson was associating with. It was a golden opportunity to double his earnings. Rather clever, really.”

He stood up and removed the stone sphere from the desk, putting in its place a folder. Mycroft picked it up. “Torchwood?” He raised an eyebrow. “So does dear Kate know you’re giving this to me?”

“Dear Kate understands lives are at stake, which are more important than petty interdepartmental quarrels, don’t you think?” said the Doctor sarcastically.

Mycroft inclined his head. “Your point is taken.” He paused. “Can you find him?”

The Doctor scoffed. “Of course I can find him! And then,” he patted his pocket where he’d stowed the stone, “I’ll do a trade.” He headed for the door. “You keep looking for Sherlock. Leave John to me.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was dragged into the room and deposited on a stool, unable to stop trembling with cold and pain. Damned transport had stopped listening to him some time ago. His hands were tied behind him, his captors having given up on handcuffs promptly after he broke his thumb and slipped them, following this up by stabbing Martin the neck with a rusty nail (the only sharp object he could find.) Everything else was hurting so much he barely noticed the pain from the break. Martin sat on a chair facing him on the other side of a table, with a bandage on his throat. He hadn’t been strong enough to do much damage this time, though he derived some satisfaction from the fact that the creature had said a little more than ‘ow’ this time. He wondered if such creatures could get tetanus and die that way. Damned transport not cooperating, he thought again. And now I’m repeating myself. Marvellous.

Martin had a laptop in front of him, and seemed to be reading something. “I’ve been having a look at Doctor Watson’s blog,” he said finally. Sherlock had locked his grief away behind a secure door in his mind palace, but at these words it made a massive attempt to break out, and he only quelled it with great difficulty. “Apparently, you’re really good at breaking into things, like other people’s computer systems.” He gave a small smile. “Sherlock … I can call you Sherlock, can’t I?”

“You just did,” muttered Sherlock, receiving a cuff from one of the men across the back of his head. 

“Stop that, Thomas,” said Martin mildly. “I am trying to talk to Sherlock.” He smiled. “Now, Sherlock, it would appear that your brother loves his state secrets more than he does you.”

“Obviously.” He felt himself cringe slightly in expectation of a blow. And wasn’t that embarrassing, he thought. 

“So I am wondering, if you’d like an opportunity to save yourself, as your brother doesn’t seem to be interested.”

Sherlock looked at the laptop, a glimmering of an idea coming to him. He looked up at Martin. “I … I don’t …” He was glad now for his ridiculously shaking body. It made him look submissive, confused. 

“Can’t you do it?” enquired Martin. “Did your friend overstate your abilities?”

Now you’re just being obvious, thought Sherlock. And you’d been rather clever up until now. “I’m not sure,” he whispered. “I’m so tired …”

“I think you might be surprised what you could manage if you try.” Martin signalled to Thomas, who untied Sherlock’s hands. He rubbed his wrists, as Martin placed the laptop on the table in front of him. “Go on, show us what you’ve got.”

Sherlock began to poke at the keys painfully. His bruised and swollen eyes made visibility limited, and he hunched towards the screen in an effort to see what he was doing. 

“How long is this going to take?” asked Thomas after a few minutes. 

Martin grinned at him. “It’s not like the movies, Thomas. These things take time. We have to be patient.” 

Sherlock kept working, as an hour passed. Thomas brought Martin a cup of tea and had one himself. (He didn’t dare drink coffee in front of Martin as the man had such an aversion to it.) 

Sherlock gasped, and jerked back from the computer, looking at them warily. “Uh … I made a mistake. It’s locked me out.”

Martin stepped around the table. “Did you do that on purpose?”

Sherlock shook his head. Martin grabbed his little finger and bent it back. “Are you sure?”

“No, no, I promise …” There was a crack as the finger broke, and Sherlock screamed, cradling his hand. “Let me try again,” he begged, his voice shaking. 

Martin sighed. “Put him back in the cellar,” he ordered Thomas. He smiled down at Sherlock. “Get some rest. I’ll be back with something to perk you up.”

Thomas dragged Sherlock roughly back to the cell and tied him to the pipe, doling out a few kicks and blows along the way. When he finally left, Sherlock lay gasping against the wall, unable to repress a small smile. Your people had better be awake, Mycroft, he thought. You’d have to be as blind as a bat not to notice what I just did.


	7. Chapter 7

The attempted computer infiltration was investigated immediately. As per policy, the computer IP address was identified and traced back to its location. A team was despatched for initial observation. When they phoned in to say they had photographed someone in the yard of the house they had under surveillance, and sent the picture for checking, it immediately flagged alarms, and was sent to the head of their section. He in turn called Mycroft. 

Greg was bored. He knew Mycroft was right, and that he’d rather be there than watching telly in a safe house away from the action, but he’d always found checking CCTV footage profoundly tedious, however necessary. When he received a text from Mycroft asking him to come to his office, he jumped up at once. When he entered. he found Mycroft in conversation with Anthea and a man in a suit. “You wanted me?” he asked. 

“Yes, Gregory,” said Mycroft. “We have a lead. Mr Sykes here will be taking a team to an address where one of the suspects has been sighted. I would like you to go with them. It is possible that Sherlock is there, and if so, I would like someone there he will recognize.”

Greg nodded. “Sure, that’s great.”

Mycroft nodded. “Please notify me when you have a result, Mr Sykes.” 

“Yes, Mr Holmes.” The man turned to leave, gesturing to Greg to go with him.

Once in the lift Mr Sykes asked Greg if he was trained in firearms, and then said he would issue him with a weapon. He explained that they had authorization to use lethal force if required, that the primary objective was to locate the younger Mr Holmes, and the secondary objective to capture or eliminate Andrew Martin. Greg agreed without comment. He was not inclined to feel for the criminals after what he had seen on the recordings, and he had a feeling there had been more since what he had seen that Mycroft had not shown him. He was also aware that this situation fell very much outside his division and in the realms of terrorism and espionage. As far as he was concerned, these people had tortured one of his friends and possibly killed another. He would happily shoot them himself, given half the opportunity. 

Infrared showed two warm bodies only in the house. One of the men in the van Greg was in stated that the house had a cellar, and they would not be able to see if anyone was in there. Mr Sikes said Sherlock (whom he was now referring to as ‘the package’, making Greg feel as if he had just strayed into a James Bond film), was likely being held there. 

In the end it was all over in minutes. Only one of the two men pulled a gun, and he was shot and killed instantly. The other surrendered, begging not to be shot. After checking the rest of the house, Greg and one of the men descended to the cellar, still being careful, but they found it empty except for Sherlock. Andrew Martin was not there. 

“Jesus!” swore Greg as he cut the ropes binding Sherlock’s wrists to the pipe. “Sherlock? Hey, can you hear me?”

“Did you kill it?” mumbled Sherlock, his head sagging against Greg’s shoulder. “Did you kill it?”

“Kill what?” asked Greg, as the medics that had accompanied the group descended the stairs. 

“Martin!” gasped Sherlock. 

It? thought Greg, puzzled. “He wasn’t here, Sherlock,” he said gently. 

Sherlock groaned as the medics gently lowed him onto a gurney and started checking him over. “It killed John!” he whispered. Oh god, thought Greg in horror. So much for Mycroft’s intel. Sherlock’s naked body looked like one big bruise with liberal amounts of blood and dirt mixed in, and he was almost relieved when the medics covered him up. “Can’t you give him something for pain?” he asked anxiously, eyeing the detective’s trembling body. 

“We will,” said one of the medics. Soon enough they injected him with something, sedative or pain killer he was not sure, and then made ready to move him.  
Greg could hear Mr Sykes on the phone as they made their way up the stairs. “Package recovered, Primary target in the wind, one secondary target eliminated, one apprehended. En route in five.”

True to his word, Greg soon found himself packed in the medic’s van next to Sherlock, following the other van where the operatives, the dead body, and their prisoner were riding. 

He soon realized they were retracing the route they’d taken. “Aren’t you taking him to hospital?” he exclaimed. 

“There’s a medical floor in the building, Detective Inspector,” said one of the medics. “He’ll be well taken care of, and it’ll be secure.”

Greg nodded, and just held Sherlock’s hand until they pulled up in the underground carpark of the building they had left. He followed the medics, and sure enough soon found himself on a floor that looked exactly like any one of the many hospitals he’d visited over the years. Sherlock was whisked away into an examination room, and Greg went to where Mycroft was standing, watching silently. 

“He said Martin killed John.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, just continued to watch the doctors and nurses treat Sherlock. His face was a mask, but Greg thought he looked tired. It had been three days since Sherlock and John first disappeared. Greg wondered if Mycroft had slept. 

Mr Sykes approached them. “He’s ready for you, sir.”

Mycroft nodded. “Gregory, will you continue to stay with my brother? I don’t want him to be alone.”

Greg nodded, and Mycroft turned towards the lifts. “Let’s go and have a chat, shall we?”

Greg thought that the hapless survivor, probably one of Sherlock’s torturers, was not in for a good time. He watched the medical personnel clean and stitch Sherlock’s wounds. The floor became stained with the blood they washed from him. He thought about all the murder victims he’d seen over the years, and it was all too easy to picture John in a shallow grave somewhere, a mental picture that left him choked with grief. And how would Sherlock survive without him? Greg decided he didn’t care what Mycroft and his men did to that bastard they had in custody. His focus had to be on helping Sherlock.


	8. Chapter 8

When Sherlock woke, the lights were dimmed and there was little noise from outside the room. A recliner chair was nearby, and Lestrade was sprawled out in this, fast asleep. It took Sherlock a moment to notice Mycroft standing at the end of the bed. Drugs and pain making his brain slow, he thought. “Time is it?” he mumbled. 

“Late,” said Mycroft, picking up a chair which he placed next to the bed. 

“Did you find it?”

“No,” said Mycroft. “The man we have in custody has been very helpful. We have found most of the others, as well as recovering a large quantity of firearms and explosives. They were planning terrorist attacks on two public buildings, in the name of a free Britain.“ His tone of voice clearly indicated what he thought of this concept. “However no one seems to know where Martin is. He left the house to buy drugs, apparently.”

“To use on me.”

Mycroft nodded. “We have checked all nearby dealers, but we cannot find him. He obviously had his own source. There is a watch on the house, but we don’t expect him to return.” He was worried about how hollow Sherlock sounded, and he knew the reason. “There is something you need to know.”

“It’s your fault he’s dead,” said Sherlock dully. “Do you know that?”

“I am painfully aware of my responsibility here,” said Mycroft, “but Sherlock, John is not dead.”

Sherlock stared at him, starting to shake his head. “No … don’t you … don’t …” He started trying to sit up, gasping with the exertion.

Mycroft pushed him back down gently. “Listen to me. We have strong intelligence the alien sold John to a group wanting information on a classified project he was involved in while in Afghanistan. We are tracking him down, and we will get him back.” Sherlock scanned his face intently, and Mycroft added, “I wouldn’t lie to you about this.” Sherlock bit his lip, and Mycroft stood up. “Do you need more pain relief?”

Sherlock shook his head minutely. “Just find John!” he hissed. 

Mycroft turned to leave. “You can stop pretending to be asleep now,” he said as he passed Greg’s chair.

Greg raised his head and watched Mycroft go. “Doesn’t he ever sleep?” he grumbled, getting up. “Hey, sunshine. I heard … alien? Really?” Sherlock groaned in reply. “Mate, I think he was right about pain relief. I’ll get a nurse, alright?” 

Sherlock lay in the bed waiting for the nurse, barely able to define how he was currently feeling. Pain, check. Exhaustion, check. Frustration with his idiotic brother, check. John’s alive ... he felt tears threatening, and quelled them with an effort. Hope, check.


	9. Chapter 9

Rory had never been more bored in his life. As he was currently wandering the corridors of the TARDIS, this was saying something. About a day previously, the Doctor had arrived on the doorstep, was not remotely bothered by the fact that Amy was away visiting friends, and dragged Rory out of the door, announcing that they were going to save a man’s life and there wasn’t a moment to lose. He then parked the TARDIS in orbit and said he was scanning. Rory had phoned Amy, had a meal, slept, showered, another meal, read a book, phoned Amy again, and was about to climb the walls. “Rory!” bellowed the Doctor from the control room. Action finally, thought Rory, hurrying in that direction. 

He found the Doctor standing before one of the control console panels, while a view panel showed apparently empty space. “Found it!” said the Doctor exultantly.

“Found what?” said Rory. 

The Doctor stared at him, and then seemed to remember he had not actually explained what was going on. “A Moldovan ship. On board is Doctor John Watson, being held by the crew because they think he has something they want. He doesn’t. However, I have found what they want and we are going to do a swap.” He tapped at some keys. “I’m sending them a request to come on board. They’ll be mulling it over.” 

“Doctor Watson? The blogger?” asked Rory. 

“That’s the one!” replied the Doctor cheerfully. 

“Okay,” said Rory. He supposed that Doctor Watson being held by aliens was not the weirdest thing he’d ever heard. 

The console in front of the Doctor beeped. “We’re cleared to board.”

“Just like that?” Rory queried, suspicious. 

“Well I may have mentioned that they are in violation of about a dozen laws and it would be a shame if the Shadow Proclamation heard about it.” He turned to Rory. “Now, when we leave the TARDIS, let me do the talking. When they produce John, I want you to take him and get him into the TARDIS. Do not wait for me, just go.”

Rory suddenly remembered something. “You said you needed my expertise. Oh god, have they tortured him?”

The Doctor paused. “He … won’t have been treated well.” The TARDIS started making loud landing noises. “Come on,” said the Doctor. 

 

The enclosure (he didn’t think it deserved to be called a room) was a mere two metres square. The ceiling was barely over his head when he stood up. The atmosphere was hot and humid. The only light was from under the door. 

He saw them when he was first brought on board, and knew it had something to do with the crashed ship in Afghanistan. What, he couldn’t imagine. They gave him no food, but water was occasionally pushed through a slot in the door. The water appeared to be drugged, as it was always after this that the voice came through a speaker, asking the same question each time. “Where is the heart of the ancestors?” Each time he informed the voice that he had no idea what it was talking about. Then he would lie on the floor and wait for the dizziness and nausea to stop. He had no choice but to drink the water, however. He would already be dead from dehydration without it. As it was he could tell by the swelling in hands and feet that what they were giving him was nowhere near enough. 

He had begun to cough quite badly shortly after being in the cell, and his chest was becoming more and more congested. He suspected the humidity of the air and wondered what bacteria was in it. God alone knew what he was breathing in. He knew he was ill. He didn’t even respond the last time he was asked the strange question. What was the point? 

He ended up slumped against a wall, coughing and thinking about Sherlock. He wondered if they’d killed him. He didn’t want to think about that. He also didn’t want to think about how upset Sherlock would be without him. He tried not to think at all but that didn’t seem to work. Everything had a nightmarish quality, and it seemed that he was never really entirely awake. He might be feverish, he considered. This amused him. How could one possibly tell that, in this heat?

He would die in here, he knew. There was no hope of escape or rescue. If Sherlock was dead, and there was an afterlife, then maybe they would be together again. It was a nice dream. 

There was a noise suddenly, a grinding, and light flooded in. John squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. Hands grabbed and dragged him from the floor. One of the two black-skinned aliens said something to him which he didn’t understand, but they appeared to want him to walk under his own steam. He took one wobbly step, and then suddenly found himself face down on the floor without really knowing how he got there. Floor? Deck? Do you call it a deck on a spaceship? He coughed weakly, as the aliens lifted him up, and dragged him. 

The corridor opened up into a wider area, and there was a louder sound of engine. Squinting at the light, he could vaguely make out three more aliens in his immediate vicinity, and two other humanoid shapes. Then … he heard English! “Well? Here is the human. Give us the heart!”

“Not so fast,” said a second voice, one that sounded …. English. How is that possible? Might be a hallucination, he figured. “You let him go.” There was a pause where nothing happened. “Shame if I dropped this,” said the voice. Moments later he was face down on the deck again. “Rory?” said the English voice. 

There were footsteps, and supportive hands helping him up gently. “Easy, mate,” said another voice, also blessedly English. “Lean on me. That’s it.” John squinted at him. Looks human. Feels real. He tried to move his feet. It was hard. “It’s not far,” said the man. “Nearly there. You can rest in a minute.” 

Somehow they were through another door and into a very different space, very wide with a high ceiling. “Here we go,” said the man. “Sit down.” It was an armchair, by the feel of it. So comfortable. His feet were raised. Oh, it’s a recliner. I really am dreaming. 

The light wasn’t quite so harsh in here, and soon John managed to open his eyes a little more. He saw a man with brown hair and a kind face looking at him. “My name’s Rory Williams. I’m going to check you over, okay?”

“You a doctor?” whispered John. 

“No,” said Rory cheerfully. “I’m a nurse. So you’ll have to help me out, Doctor Watson.”

“It’s John.”

Rory was rummaging around in an ordinary looking medical bag, somewhat out of place in what appeared to be yet another spaceship. How did they get onto another spaceship? Or maybe it was the same spaceship. He was feeling very confused. Rory took out a thermometer and put that in his ear. It beeped after a few moments and he grimaced at it. 

John frowned. “You know me?”

“Seen your picture in the paper,” said Rory. “And the Doctor said it was you we were coming to find.” Rory fished out a stethoscope. “I want to listen to your lungs, okay?”

Suddenly the door banged, making them both jump. What seemed to John like a dark blur rushed past them, heading for a circular construction that had various switches and lights on the surface. “Time to go!” There was a pounding at the door, making John look back at it in alarm. “Temper!” shouted the blur. 

Rory laid a hand on John’s arm. “They can’t get in, John, we’re quite safe.”

The blur, which had coalesced into a lanky male with stringy brown hair, a big chin, and wearing a mismatched outfit including a bow tie, was racing around the circular device flicking switches. The most appalling noise started, and the column in the middle of the device began moving up and down. “On our way.”

Rory went back to his check. “Quite a few crackles, there, John, though I don’t imagine that’s a surprise.”

“Pneumonia,” John agreed. 

Rory pinched the skin on the back of John’s hand. It failed to rebound for a few seconds. He got up and went towards where the man with the bow tie was approaching. “He needs antibiotics, fluids, oxygen … basically he needs hospital.”

“We’ll be where he can get help in a few minutes,” said the man. “Hello Doctor Watson, I’m the Doctor. I’m a friend of Mycroft’s.”

Mycroft has friends? John thought fuzzily, but didn’t have the energy to respond. Another thought suddenly occurred to him. “Unknown … infection,” he wheezed. “Biohazard.”

The Doctor shook his head. “There is no danger to anyone else, I assure you.”

“How can you …”

The Doctor shook his head. “I know, Doctor Watson. Please don’t talk, it’s obviously hard for you.”

Rory had disappeared from John’s side, and now reappeared with a bottle of water, which he was unscrewing. He held it to John’s mouth. “Just sip it,” he warned. 

It was surprisingly difficult to suppress the urge to gulp, but John managed, and sipped the water. This brought on another paroxysm of coughing that left him feeling faint. There was another burst of loud groaning from the central console, a clunk, and the column stopped moving. “We’re here,” said the Doctor. 

 

Mycroft was standing in the foyer of the medical level, having received a message from the Doctor that simply said “ETA eighth floor five minutes, have medical staff ready.” He could only assume the Doctor had been successful in retrieving John, but he had no idea what to expect. Nearby a doctor and two nurses stood with a gurney. His staff were well-trained enough not to react, but he knew they must be puzzled. Well they’d be more puzzled in a minute. The tell-tale groaning filled the air, and the TARDIS appeared. The door opened, and the Doctor appeared. He and another man (Rory Williams, nurse, identified companion of the Doctor, Mycroft’s brain automatically supplied) were supporting John between them. Mycroft frowned. Unlike Sherlock, John had not been physically injured, but he was obviously extremely ill. He was pale, sweating, shivering, coughing, and barely able to walk with the aid of the other two. He had lost weight and was still wearing the clothes he went missing in, though now stiff from grime and sweat. The medical staff converged on him, and were soon loading him onto the gurney, with Rory giving the attending doctor a handover. 

Mycroft watched as they disappeared into an examination room. “Thank you,” he said. 

The Doctor shrugged. “The Yrani got away.” It wasn’t a question. 

“No doubt it will have changed its identity by now,” Mycroft said. “It will make it difficult to find. I have people looking.”

Lestrade appeared. “God, is that John?” he asked in shock. 

“Obviously, Gregory,” said Mycroft tiredly. Greg raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. 

There was a noise from the room behind him. Greg looked around. “Oi, don’t get out of bed!” He disappeared back into the room. A nurse followed shortly afterward. 

Mycroft sighed. “Any suggestions on how to locate this person?”

The Doctor waved a hand. “One or two. Your office?”


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock was lying in bed, the file he’d been given by Mycroft discarded on the table next to him. He was watching John, whose bed had been wheeled into the room a little over an hour previously. He’d been asleep since then, but Sherlock had only been left alone for about ten minutes, after Greg went off to sleep in an actual bed (his words) and Sherlock was regarded as being safe to leave now John had been rescued. Sherlock judged the distance between the beds. Yes, he could manage that. 

He carefully disconnected himself from the machines, turning off alarms as he went. He left the drip, as it was attached to a mobile stand and he could pull that with him. He eased his way out of bed, wincing as he put weight on his painful feet. Sherlock hobbled across the intervening distance, and sank gratefully into the chair next to John’s bed. Now he could look at him much more easily. 

The nurses had explained that John was dehydrated and had a nasty infection in his lungs, he was exhausted and was sleeping, but he would be alright. Sherlock, listening to the rattle of his breathing and seeing the pallor of his face, was not so sure about this. He picked up John’s hand, which was lying on the coverlet, and held it. He just wanted John to open his eyes, say something, and then he could properly accept that he was alive. He was painfully aware that this did not make sense. You make me abysmally sentimental, John, he thought.

It was about twenty minutes later when John’s breathing changed slightly, and his hand flexed in Sherlock’s. Sherlock watched him open his eyes, aware of an absurdly overwhelming feeling of relief. John blinked a few times dazedly, turned his head slightly, and looked at Sherlock. “Sher …” he whispered, and his eyes suddenly widened in alarm. “What happened to you?” he gasped, and started coughing, setting off an alarm on the machine recording his oxygen saturation level.

A nurse rushed in. “Mr Holmes, what are you doing out of bed?” she scolded, as she went to John’s side. She raised his bed a little more and dialled up his oxygen. “Deep breaths, Doctor Watson. In and out, that’s it.” When John was more relaxed, and the reading back where it should be, the nurse turned back to Sherlock. “You’ll tear your stitches,” she said. “If you haven’t already.”

“Go away,” said Sherlock, who then noticed John frowning at him. “Please,” he added. She ignored this, walking to the foot of the bed and making a note in John’s chart, and then crossing to Sherlock’s bed and scrawling something in his. Sherlock waited until she was gone before taking John’s hand again. He knew John was looking at him, but he couldn’t seem to raise his eyes from their joined hands. “I thought you were dead,” he told the hands. 

“Oh,” John whispered. Sherlock raised John’s hand to his lips, and kissed it. John stroked his cheek. “I’m sorry, love,” he said. His eyes drooped. 

“Go back to sleep, John,” said Sherlock, trying to sound matter-of-fact and not at all like he wanted to hold onto John and never let him go. 

“Go back to bed, Sherlock,” John replied. 

“I will if you will,” retorted Sherlock. John smiled, and closed his eyes. 

Sherlock shuffled back to his bed and climbed in with difficulty. The entire excursion had left him in considerable pain, but he didn’t mind. John was back, and he would be okay, and they would both recover. He even didn’t mind too much when the nurse came back in with a doctor who insisted on checking the stitches on his back and feet. He let them, while he went to his mind palace to review the situation. He wanted to know what happened to John, and he was worried about the missing alien. The creature had to be found, for John to be safe. He needed to talk to Mycroft. 

John was contemplating a tray of breakfast in the early morning without much enthusiasm. “I know you don’t feel like eating,” said the nurse. “If you just try a little bit it’ll be a start.” John nodded, and began to pick at the plate of scrambled egg in front of him. It was at that moment there was commotion from the other bed.   
John turned his head, to see Sherlock starting to shift restlessly, groaning. He remembered the nurse the previous night mentioning stitches. “He needs to wake up,” he told the nurse, who was nodding and already moving toward the other bed. 

John was about to tell her not to touch him, but she seemed to know this, standing just out of reach and calling, “Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes, you’re dreaming, wake up!” 

Moments later Sherlock started awake with a gasp. “You’re quite safe, Mr Holmes,” said the nurse calmly. “I’ll bring your breakfast.” She left without further comment. 

Sherlock sat up with a wince, and looked around quickly as John asked, “What happened to you?” 

“Oh, well … you know, this and that,” said Sherlock evasively. “Annoying people, you know how I am.”

“You’re in pain, you’re covered in bruises, and the nurse mentioned stitches, so don’t give me that crap,” said John. 

Sherlock grimaced. “And you are very sick, and very weak. So what happened to you?”

John looked away. “It’s a bit hard to explain.” He was starting to gasp, and put the oxygen mask back on. Sherlock frowned, but didn’t say anything, and began to pick at his own meal. 

The door opened again, and Mycroft entered, followed by a man wearing a bow tie. “Finally!” complained Sherlock. He tapped the folder next to him. “It’s a watch.”

“Interesting,” Mycroft responded. “Description?”

“Black band 4cm width, metallic, no visible clasp, circular silver clock face, real silver, 4 cm diameter, Arabic numerals in black on white dial, hour and minute hands only, no second hand, and if I’d known what it was I’d have tried to take it.”

“You wouldn’t have succeeded,” said the man in the bow tie, wandering over to John’s bed. 

“And just who are you?” demanded Sherlock haughtily. 

“The man who saved me, Sherlock,” John said, “so be nice.” Mycroft smirked at Sherlock’s expression, as John said, “I didn’t get a chance to thank you.” 

The Doctor shrugged. “I was in the neighbourhood.”

John gave a small smile. “In the neighbourhood of a spaceship?”

“Spaceship?” exclaimed Sherlock. 

“Inside voices, little brother,” said Mycroft snidely. 

“I did tell you it was hard to explain,” John pointed out. He turned back to the Doctor. “Can I ask you a question? What is the heart of the ancestors and why did those people think I knew?”

“Ha, good question!” said the Doctor cheerily. “Moldovans are a tetchy kind of race, and very rigid in their religious beliefs. Heart stones are the property of each clan, and they are the repositories of the ancestors’ feelings and memories, their hearts. You’d be surprised how often they do go missing, basically because that lot insist on lugging the things around with them. And then we have blood-feuds and murders and kidnappings and all sorts of fun and games.” He sighed. “As for why they thought you knew, when you attended the crashed ship in Afghanistan, the pilot cabin was still transmitting. The UNIT personnel might have been the ones removing the items from the ship, but your information was all the Moldovans had. So they came here looking for the so-called thief, got in touch with the Yrani alien who was living here, and it eventually impersonated Andrew Martin in order to lure you into a trap, and deliver you to its buyers.” He snorted. “Meanwhile the heart stone was in the UNIT archive labelled ‘unknown artefact, decorative?’ Idiots!”

John had been contemplating the unspoken information that the Moldovans would have eventually killed him one way or the other, and almost missed it. “Wait … Andrew Martin is an alien?”

“Andrew Martin was quite human,” Mycroft said. “The alien we are searching was impersonating Andrew Martin.”

“It was the watch,” Sherlock added. “According to the information we have, they have technology that can make them look like someone else. As long as it wears the watch, it will look like the person whose appearance has been loaded on the watch.”

“It’s actually a perception filter of sorts,” said the Doctor. “The Yrani does not alter his appearance at all. The filter acts on the minds of those around him, compelling them to accept the appearance it is projecting.”

“That’s why it didn’t work on you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “You never do as you’re told.”

“I’m very confused,” John admitted. 

Sherlock was opening his mouth to insult Mycroft, when a new voice broke in. “Um, hello?”

“Rory!” said the Doctor happily, looking around. 

“Have you forgotten John is ill?” said Rory.

“I’m alright,” murmured John. 

“He’s right,” Sherlock interjected, his protectiveness coming out. “You should be resting. My git of a brother and bow-tie man here can leave.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and the Doctor protested, “Bow-ties are cool.”

“They’re really not,” said Sherlock, and the Doctor looked affronted. 

“Give it up,” Rory advised Sherlock. “You’ll never convince him.”

“One more question,” Sherlock added as they turned away. “For bow-tie man. The alien is injured. Will a new persona hide the injury?”

The Doctor considered this for a moment. “Hmm, probably not. The perception will include the injury, whether the Yrani wants it to or not. Where is he injured?”

“There’s an injury in the neck,” said Sherlock. “Also a small cut on the arm, but he can hide that easily enough.”

“Everyone's leaving, aren’t they?” Rory reminded them. 

“Bossy,” complained the Doctor. “What is it about medical people?”


	11. Chapter 11

Detective Inspector Donovan entered a seedy pub late in the evening. She had been contacted by an informant she occasionally used, who claimed to have vital information on a current case. Donovan was not hopeful, as the man was a petty criminal who she could not imagine would know anything about the white-collar fraud case she was currently investigating. However, you never knew, so she made the trip, making sure that the office was notified of where she was going and why. 

He had arrived already, and he was lurking furtively at a table near the back. Donovan rolled her eyes, sitting at a table in the better lit area near the front and beckoning him forward. He shuffled over, mumbling a complaint about not wanting to be seen near a copper. Donovan wondered why on earth he had asked her to meet him at a pub in that case, but she didn’t say it. No point in antagonising the man, just in case he did know something relevant. 

“I’ll get you a drink,” he offered. 

Donovan raised an eyebrow. Uncharacteristic. Dennis was a stingy sod normally. “That’s very generous of you,” she said suspiciously. “I’ll pass. What have you got for me, Dennis?”

“What’s it worth?”

“Usual rates and conditions, as you know, so don’t waste my time. Have you got something for me or not?”

“Well,” Dennis began, “I was reading the paper …” he commenced a long rambling story, and Donovan was just about to interrupt him, when she realised her head had unexpectedly hit the table. She only had a moment to be confused about this when darkness fell. 

One hour later Detective Inspector Donovan got into her car and picked up her phone. She listened to some messages, and then opened text messaging to her sergeant. She sent a message with a strong complaint about Dennis stringing her along and how she must be getting old for falling for it. She sent the message. A few minutes later she received a response, acknowledging the message.

She scrolled through the contacts and sent another text. 

Lestrade responded, surprised to hear from her. 

I didn’t see you around, she wrote, and I heard on the grapevine you’d been seconded off to something hush-hush, so I thought I’d give you a ring and see how the cloak and dagger is going. She hit send.

Too much of the cloak and not enough of the dagger, responded Greg. 

She stared at this message in perplexity, and finally sent a couple of question marks. 

I’m bored, Sally! came the response, followed quickly by, God, I sound like Sherlock.

Is Sherlock with you? she sent. Only I heard he’d dropped off the radar, and I wondered.

Sorry, Sally, that’s not something I’m allowed to discuss, unfortunately. You know how it is.

Understood, she replied. Well, enjoy MI5 headquarters.

Ha, yeah, 24 hour party around here. Anyway, gotta go, I’ll see you around, yeah?

See you around, she sent, and put down the phone. 

The alien masquerading as Sally Donovan picked up a laptop it had placed on the front seat, opening it to a program specifically designed to track mobile phone locations, and which was far more accurate than Scotland Yard’s usual tracking software. “There you are,” it murmured.


	12. Chapter 12

“Gold,” said the Doctor, standing at the door of the TARDIS. 

Sherlock was taken aback. He often answered people’s questions before they were asked, but he was not used to being on the receiving end. “Gold,” he echoed. 

The Doctor nodded. “The Moldovans have plenty of gold deposits and are quite rich. They must have paid the Yrani in gold. Mycroft’s people are looking into that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes to show his opinion of Mycroft’s people. “Gold from another planet …”

“Will have different elements, that can show up when properly scanned,” the Doctor completed. “However, I’ve got some other ideas. Would you like to help me with an experiment?” He held the door wide. 

Sherlock, having acquired a wheelchair in order to make movement easier while his feet were healing, now wheeled the chair cautiously through the door, and immediately stopped. The Doctor waited. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Testing!” he called out, and then listened. The Doctor grinned. No one had ever done that before. “It’s not an optical illusion,” Sherlock said. 

“No.” 

“How does it work?” 

The Doctor grinned. “You don’t have the physics.” He went on before Sherlock could object. “Would you like to know why you couldn’t have removed the Yrani’s watch?”

Sherlock was fully well aware he was being side-tracked, but he was curious. “Yes.”

“Molecular bonding,” said the Doctor. He snatched up what looked like a piece of cloth from a polished wooden table that looked strangely out of place in that technological setting, and handed it to Sherlock. 

Sherlock examined it. “Cloth, cotton, low thread count. Cheap dye, probably manufactured in China. Nothing unusual about it.”

“Take it by the ends and hold it out for me.” Sherlock did so, and the Doctor aimed his sonic screwdriver at it. Sherlock found himself holding two pieces of cloth. 

The Doctor watched Sherlock carefully examine the two pieces he held. “So put it back together,” said Sherlock. Moments later he was holding a single piece of cloth. He examined it again. “Hm. Molecular bonding. How is it done? I think you’ll find I do have the chemistry.”

“I’m not telling you that,” said the Doctor. “That technology won’t be available on this planet for another two centuries.”

“But …”

The Doctor interrupted again, making Sherlock bristle. “Your brother thinks you are still in danger, that the Yrani may have made promises to others that he can only keep by handing you over.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

“You’re not concerned by that?” asked the Doctor. 

“Concern is irrelevant,” said Sherlock testily. “It has no bearing on the outcome.”

“What about John? Would you be concerned about him?”

Sherlock frowned. “Those people have what they want, so you said

“Those people, sure.”

Sherlock scrutinized him carefully, feeling a surge of frustration that he could not read the man. Alien, he reminded himself. He could not read the Yrani, and he could not read the Doctor. “Explain.”

“I think someone else is involved, Sherlock. The Moldovans said they were contacted by the Yrani when they approached Earth. Moldovans use cloaking technology on their ships, and it is very good. It took me hours to find them and I knew what I was looking for. How did the Yrani happen to know the ship was there? Even if he had access to the technology of his time, it would have been improbable. Here and now, impossible.”

“Maybe the Moldovans were lying.”

“They had no motive,” said the Doctor. 

Sherlock huffed in irritation. “Why would someone want to hurt John? Even those aliens were less interested in killing him than finding out where their rock was! What is their motive?”

The Doctor smirked. “Spoilers.” Sherlock looked blank. The Doctor sighed. “There is a reason in the future, and I can’t tell you about your future for fear of changing it.”

“What’s wrong with changing it?” demanded Sherlock. 

“That’s what someone else is trying to do,” the Doctor said. “and if they succeed it will be bad. End of the world bad.”

“John’s going to save the world?” asked Sherlock sceptically. 

The Doctor smiled. “Not exactly.” He turned towards an inner door. “Come on. The Yrani device has a particular energy signature that I may be able to trace.” He grinned over his shoulder. “And I’ll happily tell you all about that.”


	13. Chapter 13

Greg sat at the desk he’d been assigned in Mycroft’s department, frowning at the text messages he’d received the previous night. There was something odd, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He picked up the landline and dialled Sally’s number. The phone rang out. He frowned again. It should have gone to voicemail. Greg then rang another number, and spoke to Donovan’s sergeant, who said Detective Inspector Donovan had called in sick. Greg thanked them and hung up. She hadn’t mentioned being ill the previous evening, but everyone gets ill occasionally. He read through the text messages again. He then sent another text. Are you okay? While he waited for a reply, he reviewed the previous messages, wondering what it was that bothered him. It was odd she’d have such a conversation via text, as she would normally have phoned. Suddenly it hit him. Sherlock. She’d called him Sherlock. Not Freak. She never called him Sherlock. Lestrade had been at her for years to stop calling him Freak but at best she occasionally referred to him as Holmes. He had been mildly surprised she’d even referred to Sherlock on the message. Getting slow, Greg, he told himself, as he got up and went looking for Mycroft. 

He knocked on the door and entered, to find Mycroft glaring at Anthea. She, for her part, was looking entirely unfazed about this. “You left no instructions,” she pointed out. 

“I’m sure they’ll turn up,” said Mycroft. “Has anyone told Doctor Watson?”

“No, sir,” said Anthea. 

“That will be all.”

She passed Greg in the doorway. “Who’ll turn up?” asked Greg. 

Only a small pursing of the lips, as well as the aforementioned glare, betrayed Mycroft’s annoyance. “Sherlock appropriated a wheelchair and was last seen entering the Doctor’s TARDIS. The TARDIS has now gone.” He gave a small sigh. “Sherlock must think it’s Christmas.”

“I thought Christmas was a locked room triple homicide,” commented Greg, eliciting a small smile from Mycroft. “Seriously, is he safe with this guy?”

“Unlikely,” said Mycroft, “but if the Doctor gets them into trouble he should be able to get them out of it.” He paused. “John may worry, though. Can you tell him?”

Greg grinned. “Chicken.” He remembered why he came in. “I am a bit concerned about something, and I’m probably overreacting, but I thought I should tell you.” He ran through the text message conversation of the previous evening, the fact that Donovan was now absent from work and not responding to him, and that the text conversation had been uncharacteristic. Mycroft stared at Greg’s phone once he was done. “Am I overreacting?” Greg asked. 

“No,” said Mycroft. “Out of character behaviour is always a red flag. What are you thinking?”

“I’m worried about her,” Greg admitted. “I am wondering if it was really her sending me those messages last night.”

“Trying to find out where you were.” 

“Could whoever it was have found a location through the texts?”

“Possibly.” 

Greg swore. “I’m sorry, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No reason for you to be. Her connection to Sherlock and John is second hand, and old. The information about her was probably acquired from Doctor Watson’s blog.” He stood up. “We need to …” The lights went out. 

Greg swore again. Mycroft, however, calmly went to a drawer and located two torches, one of which he gave to Greg. “Are you armed?” Greg nodded. “Go to John. Use the stairs. Lock the door, and don’t let anyone in except Anthea or myself.”

“On it,” said Greg, and ran.


	14. Chapter 14

“Should you be walking?” asked the Doctor with interest as Sherlock hauled himself up the stairs. 

“Transport,” Sherlock scoffed. 

The Doctor shrugged, and bounded ahead, waving around the device they had created. “Here we are!” he said cheerfully, heading immediately into the room on the left, after unlocking it with another device he took out of his pocket. I want that, thought Sherlock, and spared an amused thought for what John would have thought about walking straight into a room where a dangerous alien might be waiting. However he heard no voices or sounds of violence, so he concentrated on negotiating the remaining stairs, and then followed the Doctor into the run down flat. There was no one there. “It must be making a lot of money,” said the Doctor. “So why is it living here?”

“It’s not,” said Sherlock, pleased to know something the Doctor didn’t. “This is a safe house. Used for business. No one pays attention in this neighbourhood.” 

The Doctor opened another door, leading to a bedroom. Sherlock looked at the equipment sitting on a bench in the kitchen. “Is this it?”

“Yep,” said the Doctor, and Sherlock turned around at the sudden change of tone. “We know what it’s currently looking like.” 

Sherlock joined him at the door to the bedroom, saw the body on the bed, and gave a short intake of breath. The Doctor looked surprised for a moment, and then frowned. “You know her,” he said. 

Sherlock nodded, managing only barely to maintain an unemotional facade. "Detective Inspector Sally Donovan.” 

“A friend?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not really.” He paused. “She’s close to Lestrade, though.” He grabbed his phone, just about to send a text when the phone rang. Sherlock frowned at it before answering. “Lestrade?”

“Where the hell are you?” hissed Lestrade. “Listen, there was a power cut and they believe someone’s in the building. I’m with John and we have the door locked. I think this tosser has done something to Sally.” 

Sherlock replied, “Greg, if you hear Sally’s voice out there, do not open the door.” He paused, his eyes on the corpse. “It won’t be Sally.” He glanced at the Doctor, who nodded and returned to the living area. “We’re on our way.”

He joined the Doctor at the door, who was holding the machine. “It can’t change its face again?”

The Doctor shook his head. “The receiver only holds one persona at a time. It needs the extractor to load another one.” He stood at the top of the stairs and dropped the machine over the rails. It made a satisfying smash on the floor below. “Oops,” said the Doctor. 

Sherlock smirked, and they began to descend the stairs. Sherlock suddenly sobered. “That machine. Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” said the Doctor. 

Sherlock nodded. “Don’t tell Lestrade that, even if he asks you.”

The Doctor looked at him curiously. “Why do you pretend you don’t care about people?”

Sherlock looked down his nose, which he somehow managed to do while returning to the stolen wheelchair. “The inspector has his uses, and I would rather he is not any more emotionally compromised than necessary.” He wheeled the chair towards where they left the TARDIS. 

“Uh huh,” said the Doctor, grinning, as he followed. 

Lestrade pocketed the phone. “Fuck,” he said. He turned around. “You don’t have to get up.”

“The hell I don’t,” said John. “I’m not lying around while some alien wants to kill me.” He coughed. 

“At least sit down, will you?”

John slumped into a chair next to the bed. “What did Sherlock say?”

“That the alien may look like Sally.”

John stared. “How on Earth …”

Lestrade shook his head but didn’t answer. 

“You think something’s happened to her,” said John. 

Lestrade was about to answer when they heard footsteps in the hall, and then someone tried the handle. They stared silently at the door. “Hello?” came a voice that was distinctly familiar. “Doctor Watson? It’s Sally Donovan. Will you let me in?”

Neither of the men replied. “Doctor Watson? I’m here to protect you.”

John rolled his eyes. “Like I’m going to fall for that,” he muttered. 

Lestrade had his gun out, standing between John and the door. The handle shook again, and then there was a thud, as if someone had tried to force the door. 

“How strong is this thing?” wondered Lestrade.

“No idea,” said John. “But if you need to, go for a head shot. Remember what Sherlock said about stabbing it in the chest.”

“Where the hell is everyone else?” wondered Lestrade. 

“I’m texting Mycroft,” said John, fiddling with his phone. He looked startled. “Not working. It must have a jammer.”

The thudding continued. “Doctor Watson?” called Sally’s voice. “Are you okay? Please open the door.” There was another thud. “Can you hear me?”  
The thudding suddenly stopped, and there was silence. A moment later there were footsteps, and a knock at the door. “This is Anthea.”

“It was just here,” Lestrade called out. “It’s impersonating Sally Donovan.”

“Understood,” said Anthea. The footsteps receded.

Lestrade turned around, to see John putting an oxygen mask to his face. He waved away Lestrade’s concern. “I’m okay.” 

“Yeah, you’re really not,” said Greg. 

The door suddenly popped open, the lock making a hissing sound. Sally Donovan stood in the doorway, holding a gun. Greg levelled his gun at her. “Gregory?” she asked with a puzzled expression. “Why are you pointing a gun at me?”

“Since when do you call me Gregory?” snarled Greg. 

The puzzled expression dropped. “Please get out of my way. I am not here for you.”

“Not happening,” said Greg. “Your cover’s blown, they know you’re in the building. Give up.”

“Why do you want to kill me?” asked John suddenly. 

Lestrade didn’t take his eyes off the being in front of him. “John, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“It’s nothing personal,” said the alien. “I’m being paid a lot of money.”

“So you don’t know,” said John. 

“I don’t care,” said the alien. “Lestrade. Move or die.” 

Lestrade levelled his gun, and blinked, as the façade of Sally Donovan dropped away and a rather weird looking creature stood there instead. Puce-coloured, bipedal, it was currently staring in disbelief at the watch on its wrist that was suddenly on the ground. 

“Sorry about that,” said the Doctor cheerily. “Just thought we should … lay our cards on the table, so to speak.” The alien had whirled around as he spoke, and started to raise its gun, only to collapse at Lestrade whacked it over the back of the head with his gun. 

The Doctor deftly kicked the alien’s gun away as Lestrade jumped on it, handcuffing its arms. 

Running feet could be heard, and the alien was soon surrounded by agents and hustled away. The Doctor picked up the watch, as Sherlock hastily wheeled past him and into the room. “John! John, you’re alright? Why are you out of bed?”

“Pot, kettle,” mumbled John, suddenly very exhausted. “Where have you been, you git?”

“On a spaceship,” said Sherlock smugly. 

John chuckled, before crawling back into his bed. “You should be resting, Sherlock.” 

Outside the door, Mycroft was saying, “Thank you for your assistance, Doctor. I trust my little brother wasn’t any trouble?”

“I like trouble,” said the Doctor. “We had loads of fun.”

“Of course you did,” Mycroft replied wearily. 

“I need to talk to the Yrani,” the Doctor added. 

“Yes indeed,” said Mycroft. 

“Mycroft,” said Greg, “I want my handcuffs back.” 

“Of course, Gregory,” said Mycroft smoothly. “Thank you for your apprehension of the criminal. It was nicely done.”

“Well I’ll just be glad when I can climb out of the rabbit hole and go back to catching murderers,” said Greg.


	15. Chapter 15

“What’s your name?” asked the Doctor. 

The Yrani said nothing, just stared at the table. 

“This is Mycroft Holmes,” said the Doctor, indicating Mycroft, “and I’m the Doctor.” The Yrani’s gaze flicked up to him. “Yes, that Doctor,” said the Doctor. “What’s your name?"

The alien said something that sounded like ‘treschlkt’. 

“Good,” said the Doctor. “What date was it at home when you were transported here?”

“Fifth turn of Skelsha,” Treschlkt stated belligerently. 

“Hm,” said the Doctor. “forty-fifth century.” He turned to Mycroft. “The Yrani were very militarized for some centuries, due in part to a squabble with a neighbouring planet. Everyone was given some sort of military training.” He looked back at Treschlkt. “You’re obviously not trained in infiltration, because this attempt was ham-fisted at best.” The Yrani scowled at him. The Doctor continued. “May I see your wrists?”

Treschlkt folded its arms, but when one of Mycroft’s men stepped forward, it hastily laid them out on the table, palms up. The Doctor peered at the tattoos marking them. “Interrogator, but … you never finished your training. Why was that?”

“I came here,” said Treschlkt. 

The Doctor shook his head. “No.” He tapped one of the tattoos. “Expelled.” He tapped another. “A prison term.” He looked up. “What did you do?”

“None of your business!”

The Doctor smirked. “Who hired you?”

Treschlkt went back to staring at the table. The Doctor glanced at Mycroft, shrugging. 

“Kidnapping, human trafficking, torture, extortion, espionage, murder, and assault,” said Mycroft. “And you are not a citizen of any country. You don’t exist, and therefore, no laws protect you.”

Treschlkt stared at him, then at the Doctor. “Don’t look at me,” said the Doctor. “I’ve got no control over Mycroft.”

“And you did torture my brother,” said Mycroft pleasantly. “This gives me … motivation.”

Treschlkt shouted suddenly, “The bugger wouldn’t pay me!”

“We know the Moldovans paid you in gold bullion,” said Mycroft, sounding bored.

“Not those loonies!” exclaimed Treschlkt. “Him! The one who told me about it.”

“Him who?” demanded the Doctor. 

Treschlkt looked at him sullenly. “Him. Trickster.”

The Doctor sat back in his seat. “Ah.”

“Trickster?” enquired Mycroft. 

“You were doing this for money?” the Doctor asked. 

“What else is there?” said the Yrani. “He offered me a way back home but there’s nothing there for me. But money buys me luxury here. “

The Doctor chuckled unexpectedly. “Must be the cheapest deal he ever made.”

“Doctor!” demanded Mycroft. 

“Sorry, Mycroft. The Trickster doesn’t even exist in this reality, so he’s not a threat in the physical sense. He is very fond of messing with time, however. He always works through intermediaries, but the price of a soul is usually a bit more costly than mere money.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” snarled the alien. “What’s the future to me? Now is all there is.”

“You must fit in well here,” said the Doctor drily, and got up. 

Mycroft followed him out. “Won’t this Trickster just find someone else?”

The Doctor shook his head. “It’s actually quite hard for him to manifest in this reality at all. He’s unlikely to try again here. John is safe.” He looked back at the door. “Please don’t kill it.”

Mycroft smirked. “Tempting as it is, I thought I’d give it to UNIT. This is their area, after all.”

The Doctor strolled away. “Bye, Mycroft!”

 

Mycroft, after issuing instructions to Anthea regarding the alien, went in search of Lestrade, and found him in the building’s canteen, staring at a cooling cup of coffee. Mycroft slid into the seat opposite him. “I am sorry about Inspector Donovan, Gregory.”

“I’ve called it in,” said Greg. “Dimmock’s taking a team out to the address Sherlock gave me.” 

Mycroft stood up, and said, “I think this situation needs something stronger than bad coffee.” He beckoned to Greg to follow him to his office. He poured out two glasses of brandy. Lestrade took one. 

“I did not anticipate the alien targeting anyone outside of Sherlock and John’s immediate circle,” Mycroft admitted. 

“You can’t guard the whole world, Mycroft,” said Greg. He took a swig of brandy. “She didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. 

“I suppose I can go home now, right?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft nodded. “Molly and Mrs Hudson will be happy to return home as well, I am sure. John and Sherlock still need medical attention, so may as well stay here for it. Until they insist on leaving, anyway.”

Greg finished his brandy. “Well, I’d better pack up and go home. And I need to go and see Sally’s parents.”

He stood up and left. Mycroft sipped his brandy. Anthea entered. “UNIT will be sending a team to take possession of the alien,” she told him. “I have contacted Mrs Hudson and Dr Hooper, and they are getting ready to go home. All section heads have been advised to have their final reports in by the end of the day. The TARDIS has gone.” She looked at his glass. “I was going to offer tea.”

Mycroft drained the glass. “Maybe later.” He stood up and went around to his desk. “Let’s get back to work.”


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock slept for a while, before going for another stroll in his stolen wheelchair (which nobody had repossessed yet). When he returned, John was awake and standing looking out of the window. John glanced down at him as he came up beside him. “Where did you get that wheelchair?” His voice sounded cracked and breathless. Sherlock didn’t like it. 

“I .. acquired it …”

“Nicked it,” John corrected, and they both shared a smile. John looked back out. “I was wondering where we were,” he said, and paused to cough, holding onto the windowsill.

“M15 building,” Sherlock answered. “But that’s not why you were looking out.”

John nodded, turning to face Sherlock. “I think it’s only fair to warn you,” he said with a shaky smile, “that I may never turn the lights off again.”

“Tell me what happened,” said Sherlock. 

John frowned, chewing on his bottom lip. “The … cell,” he said finally, “was barely two metres square.”

“That’s not a cell, that’s a box,” said Sherlock. 

John nodded in agreement. “It was pitch black except for a bit of light around the opening where they supplied the water. The temperature was hot and very humid, almost thick. Smelled of … I don’t know, decaying flowers, maybe? I knew the water was drugged, but I had to drink it, I was dehydrating, I would have died. I suppose it was meant to be a truth drug, but I didn’t know what they wanted anyway so I don’t know if it was working. It just made me vomit.”

“Further dehydration,” said Sherlock. 

John nodded in agreement. He looked distressed. “I didn’t know what had happened to you. I didn’t think I was ever going to see you again, Sherlock. I didn’t care I was going to die, just that you would never know.”

Sherlock pulled himself out of the wheelchair and put his arms around John, who leaned against him. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. 

John embraced him, and his hands touched the bandages on Sherlock’s back. He traced his hands over the bandages gently. “Whip?” he asked softly. Sherlock nodded. John lowered his head against Sherlock’s chest. “Bloody hell, again?” 

“I’ll be fine, John,” said Sherlock, trying to be reassuring. “It will heal. We will both heal.”

John released him. “You should be off your feet,” he said. Sherlock shrugged, but sat back down in the wheelchair. “And what caused those injuries, anyway?” he asked, looking down at Sherlock’s feet. 

“A knife,” said Sherlock. 

John sighed, sitting down in the chair that had been next to his bed. “You said when I first woke up, that you thought I’d died.”

“The alien told me it had shot you in the head,” said Sherlock, looking down at his hands. “I know how you felt now, when I was …” He broke off. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.” John picked up Sherlock’s splinted hand. He stroked lightly over his thumb. “Handcuffs?” 

“Very good, John, there’s hope for you yet.” 

John smirked. “Git.” He looked at the broken little finger. “That wasn’t handcuffs.” 

“No,” said Sherlock, looking down at his broken finger. “That was the only injury the alien did to me itself.” 

John grimaced. “Sounds like Moriarty. How do we get ourselves in these situations?” 

“Talent,” Sherlock replied promptly. 

John stared at him for a moment, before starting to laugh. This led to coughing, and Sherlock fetched him a glass of water. “Thanks,” John croaked. “God this is annoying.” He rubbed his chest, and stood up. “Have to lie down,” he explained. “Think I need to sleep again.” He climbed back into the bed. “Wish I wasn’t so tired.” He looked over at Sherlock. “You must be very bored.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Go to sleep, John.”

John closed his eyes. “Don’t overdo it,” he murmured. “You need rest too.”

“Sherlock?” John mumbled as Sherlock turned away. 

“Yes, John?”

“Can we go away for a while? When we get out of here?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I’ll arrange it.”

“No murders.” John was almost asleep. 

“No murders,” Sherlock agreed.


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who liked and commented on this story, I very much appreciate it.

The Doctor sat at a table that was on the first floor of a café, overlooking a busy road below. He sipped a cup of tea patiently. Rory and Amy sat nearby, Rory tucking into a piece of cake and Amy drinking a coke. “When are you going to tell us why we’re here?” asked Amy. 

The Doctor looked surprised. “Didn’t I say?” Amy and Rory exchanged a long-suffering look. 

“We’re here to see the world changing,” said the Doctor cheerfully. 

Amy looked around. “Here?” she asked dubiously. Moments later there was a crash, the distinct sound from the street below of a car accident. Rory got to his feet, but the Doctor put a restraining hand on his arm. 

“Doctor, I have to!” Rory protested. 

The Doctor shook his head. “Not this time. Sit down.” Rory hesitated. “Trust me,” added the Doctor. 

Rory reluctantly resumed his seat. Amy was craning her head to look down at the street below. Two cars, one a taxi, were currently wrapped around each other in the intersection they were overlooking. There was a fair bit of shouting and car horns blaring. A small crowd had gathered to stare, with only a few approaching the cars trying to help. 

“There’s a woman trapped in the back of the taxi,” reported Amy. 

“And … now!” said the Doctor. 

Below they heard a voice rising over the racket. “Let me through, let me through please, I’m a doctor.”

Rory stared. “John?”

Amy gasped. “Is this it?” She looked meaningfully at them. “The thing I was left out of?”

“It’s not my fault,” complained Rory. 

“Give it a rest, Pond!” demanded the Doctor. “Just watch.”

“He’s looking better than the last time I saw him,” commented Rory. 

“That was eighteen months ago,” pointed out the Doctor. 

“For him,” Rory said. “Been two days for us.”

They watched, as John could be seen taking charge, ensuring an ambulance had been called, recruiting a couple of the bystanders to help the driver of the second car who seemed to be walking, at least, before crawling into the wrecked taxi. 

“Take charge guy, isn’t he?” commented Amy. 

“I think the driver’s dead,” said Rory, noticing the distant figure of John move from the front seat immediately to the passenger in the back. 

“Heart attack,” said the Doctor. “It’s what caused the accident. He was dead before the car entered the intersection.”

“Poor man,” murmured Amy. “So, the woman is important?”

“Everyone’s important,” said the Doctor. 

“You know what I mean!” replied Amy, irritated. 

The Doctor sighed, as the distant sound of sirens could be heard. “The woman is five months pregnant. Without the immediate medical help John is providing, she would miscarry the baby.”

“It’s the baby,” said Rory. “What is the baby going to do?”

The Doctor smiled as John poked his head out of the taxi window long enough to gesticulate at a few other bystanders who jumped to do whatever he had asked. “In thirty-six years from now, the woman currently inside her mother’s womb, will receive a Nobel prize for physics, after discovering a method for accessing hyperspace, thus making interstellar travel possible. In forty-eight years from now, the first manned spaceships will leave your solar system. She will be brilliant, ahead of her time. Interstellar travel would still have come, but not quite so soon. What the Trickster thought to achieve by the delay I’m not sure. He may simply have been doing it for fun.”

“That’s rather clever, isn’t it?” said Amy. 

The Doctor nodded. “Oh yes. By not attacking the scientist, or her parents, but a doctor who saved her and her mother’s life because he was just passing by, you avoid any fixed point tampering issues. The Trickster knows this, of course.”

He rose as an ambulance pulled up, followed by a fire engine. As they went to leave, Rory looked back to see the firemen and paramedics gathering around the car, no doubt to discuss the best way to extract the injured woman. A police car pulled up soon afterward, and the two officers were soon directing traffic and instructing the remaining rubberneckers to move on. 

Rory smiled. It had been a bit of a different adventure, but perhaps one of the most rewarding he’d experienced. “What are you smiling about?” asked Amy. 

“A job well done,” said Rory. 

“Quite right,” said the Doctor.


End file.
